Of Direwolves and Dragons
by EinsteinHawking
Summary: Set five years after the season 2 final; Gendry sits on the Iron Throne, with Arya as his Hand, but all is far from well with Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons approaching Westeros. WILL CONTAIN SOME SPOILERS!
1. Prologue: The Bastard King

**A/N:** _Am currently obsessed with GoT and need to get some of this out of my system. _

_I've read what happens in the books but not actually read them, so this will be quite AU and will be based more on the TV series than the books. Five years have passed since the season two final and what's happened during those five years will be explained throughout the story. Much like the books it has an ensemble of characters with POV chapters. There's sort of three different pairings going on here too but I'll let you figure them out. ) _

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_**Prologue: **_

**The Bastard Kin****g**

304 AL

Although he sat in the Iron Throne, with a golden crown and robes made of fine silk, he did not feel like a king. He was still the bastard who had grown up on the streets, still the apprentice blacksmith whose master tossed him aside, still the young lad with grubby fingernails making his way to the Wall.

It was not eight months ago that Joffrey Lannister was poisoned and his mother and siblings imprisoned. Not eight months ago Stannis Baratheon –his uncle- became king and had Cersei Lannister hanged for incest and treason. Seeing as Myrcella had already been sold to a noble family to help the war effort, Stannis' only concern was Tommen. The boy was lucky. At an age of four and ten he was more than of age to be sent to the Wall to train for the Night's Watch, which the townsfolk felt was only just, but instead Stannis simply stripped him of his title as Lord and sent him to live with his uncle Tyrion, the imp.

Gendry still remembered the day Stannis sent his men in search of him all across Westeros. He'd escaped Harrenhall by then with Arya and Hot Pie and was found by the Brotherhood without Banners. He remembered how he felt upon hearing how much they loathed the Lannisters, how they were seeking vengeance for King Robert and Eddard Stark, how they were there to protect the weak and innocent.

In the name of Seven Hells, he truly believed in them.

The young king shivered. The memory of Lady Catelyn Stark's undead face still haunted him. When he saw what the Brotherhood had done, how they had raised her from the grave without a single thought to the consequences, he knew he had to leave. He had no reason to stay, Arya had fled and Beric Dondorian was dead and had died quite a few times mind you.

Gendry was still uncertain how he felt about them. Of course, it did not matter now that they had long been disbanded with many of the members killed by Stannis' men.

He was picked up by his uncle's men within a few weeks and brought back to Kings Landing. Gendry was surprised at how reasonable Stannis was. No, he wasn't the nicest person and by the Old Gods and the New was he miserable, but he knew right from wrong –which was better than what he could say for many of the people he'd met.

Ser Gendry Waters soon learnt a great deal more about his father than he had ever dared to hope.

In the two months that followed he spent his time with Stannis, learning the ways of court life and developing strategies to win the war and hold the throne. They started by trying to win the favour of the people of the North by publicly hunting down and executing Theon Greyjoy for the murder of Bran and Rickon Stark. Within hours of the hanging, Northerners were making their way to King's Landing to pledge their allegiance to the king and within days they were sent to war.

There was his uncle with over forty thousand man on one side and Aeron Greyjoy with only twenty-eight on the other. Though the battle was won, Stannis was left with his body scattered across the battlefield…there wasn't even enough of him to hold a funeral worthy of a king.

It had been two weeks since Gendry Waters had become King Gendry Baratheon of the Seven Kingdoms, two weeks since the crown had first been set onto his head by the Grand Maester and still he did not feel worthy.

The feeling was to strengthen when she walked into the room.

She had grown he could see and would no longer be able to pass for a boy, with her dark hair tied into a long braid at the back, her pudgy cheeks gone and her jawline more defined, sharp and strong as she was. Lower down sat a pair of small budding bosoms. She hid her curves well too by wearing a loose light blue shirt and brown waist coat. Despite all her attempts to hide her femininity, there was no denying she'd become a woman and yet at the same time she was still very much the girl he remembered. The girl with large grey eyes that shone and glared much like the steel in his old workshop, eyes that contradicted her small, angelic face.

Gendry couldn't help the smile that graced his lips at the sight of her, not only because he'd forgotten how beautiful she was but also because in these brief moments, he had come to realise how much he had longed to see her.

"Ah, long time no see, milady." He said as he rose from the throne and made his way down the steps to great her.

Arya cocked a single bushy brow and waited until he was within four feet of her to pull out her sword. This one was long and thin just like Needle, made of fine silver with an ever-so-slight curve that was distinctly Braavos. The tip of the blade met with his neck. Her hand was wrapped around the hilt lightly as though it were a feather, her grip was steady and she applied just the right amount of pressure to cause discomfort but not to fatally wound.

The people of the throne room gasped and fell silent as they watched Lady Arya of House Stark threaten their king.

"You and I are no longer allies, Gendry." Her tone was deadly serious, and he felt his heart sink like a stone in the Narrow Sea at her merciless tone, "I know what you are to ask of me and I came to tell you myself that I won't be your Hand nor will I acknowledge you as King."

She took a step back and sheathed her sword. Gendry frowned. He should have known she wouldn't forgive him his misjudgement.

If there was one thing he had learnt about her during their time, it was that she held grudges and her enemies often had short lives. He supposed he had held a flicker of hope in his heart that she would not blame him or that if she did she would come, in time, to understand that his intentions were good. Honourable. He had prayed to every God he knew of, that she would know that what did he did to protect her, to help her, to give her closure in the death of her family.

Nothing he had done in those dark weeks four years ago was to hurt her. He would have given his life if it had meant someone else sparing hers.

"You may do as Joffrey did to my father and behead me for treason, if you wish, but I _will not_ bow. Not to you."

Gendry hung his head, eyes closed and brow furrowed; he could not find the words to stress how sorry he was. He also could not believe she would ever think he could merely stand here and order his men to kill her. For without her, he had no-one. She was his only remaining true friend.

And even she wanted to kill him.

"I left them." He whispered, his blue eyes meeting her fierce grey ones, "As soon as I learnt the truth, I left them."

Arya shook her head, her hands at her side shaking, but with fear or anger he did not know.

"They kept me prisoner!" she snapped, "They raised my mother from the dead and allowed her corpse to ride through the town to murder anyone whom she deemed worthy of it! They soiled her name! My family's name!"

Her words were spat with more fire than the flames of wildfire, with more venom than the greatest snake known to man and they cut him deeper than any sword could have, spewing his emotions rather than his blood.

"Arya, please! I was foolish to trust them, I know that now."

Gendry watched her carefully, his eyes searching her face for any sign of understanding. There was none. She remained silent, her features still as stone. Arya looked to her left -something she only did when she was feeling conflicted. Had he finally gotten through to her? Did she believe him? Could she see now how much he ached to mend their broken friendship?

Arya did not move. She did nothing but gaze after him with a tight-knit brow and lips turned down at the corners.

And thus he took off his crown and sank to his knees. Her eyes shot wide open, she sucked in a breath, releasing it hastily. Gendry set his crown on the stone floor of the throne-room, arms spread out wide. He did not dare to hope to hold her like he had only moments before, he merely wanted to make her listen to his plea.

Yes, King Gendry Baratheon the First of His Name was begging before the court.

"What are you doing?" she hissed, her eyes darting around the room.

Any other time he would have smirked at her discomfort, perhaps even teased her for it. He couldn't do that now, not when their friendship was clearly hanging by a thread. He did not even care now whether she agreed to be his Hand or not, so long as he could still call her his dear friend.

"Begging you to listen to me, that's what." He said in that low, serious tone of his, "My judgement was clouded. I wronged your family because of it, but I swear by the Gods _and_ the Seven Kingdoms that I did not know what they were doing." He blew out a breath, "I thought I was doing right by you and your family. Forgive me."

He bowed his head to her apologetically, awaiting her answer.

"Your Grace," came Lord Pyus Skel'rah's soft, disapproving voice from behind him, "a king should not have to bow to anyone –least of all to one of the traitor House Stark."

Gendry clenched his jaw. He was aware that there were those still loyal to the Lannisters in his court, those who still believed the Starks to be traitors, whom shook their heads whenever they appeared in court.

"Do not tarnish the Stark family with that word again, Lord Skel'rah." Gendry said, his voice gruff as he turned his head to look at the old, balding lord, "For you will surely regret it."

Lord Skel'rah's dark green eyes bore into his own, the man nodded once and with that Gendry turned his head back to Arya. He watched her with uncertainty, she was indeed taking her time mulling over whether or not she should trust his words.

Arya rolled her eyes,

"Oh, get up you fool."

He stood at once, unable to shake the thought that she was above him in rank. King or no, he would always hold her in high regard. To Gendry, what Arya said, went.

Gendry opened his mouth to speak but she cut him off,

"I'll be your Hand. Nonetheless I am still angry with you so you best not do anything stupid this time around."

His grin stretched from ear to ear, which she returned with the smallest trace of a smile of her own. For an instant, Gendry forgot all about the return of the White Walkers or Daenerys Targaryen's dragons that were said to bring death to all once they had come of age and she had crossed the Narrow Sea. The prospect of war and death and dragon fire did not deter him now because Lady Arya Stark was his Hand and he knew that between them nothing would touch the Seven Kingdoms.

They would not allow it.

"Of course not, milady."

She punched his arm. He could indeed hear the royal court, the ladies and lords wondering what in Seven Hells he was thinking allowing her to treat him so. They were not there the day he met her, nor did they know how close they'd become during their travels. They saw a lady mistreating her king and nothing else.

"_Do. Not. Call. Me. 'Milady'." _She said, enunciating each word.

"As milady commands."

Arya let out a growl and pushed past him, he chuckled, rubbing the arm she had abused as he watched her storm in the direction of the Red Keep.

By the Gods he'd missed her.


	2. Wild Flower of War

_**A/N:**_ _Thanks for the reviews, they mean a lot. XXXX _

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_**Chapter One**_

** Wild Flower of War **

One Year Later

"I want at least four thousand men on the following posts stretching from Gulltown to Mistwood." Arya commanded as she pointed to the two coastal towns, "Take the canons and wildfire. Daenerys Targaryen is a fool if she truly plans to cross the Narrow Sea whilst her dragons are still young. She's given us an advantage, let's not waste it."

The men of the small council nodded. They came in all different shapes and sizes but what was important was that they agreed in thinking she could do the job given to her. Still, it was surprising how vastly dissimilar some of them were.

There was the Grand Maester Voleur, of a tall, slender build with monk like hair that left him bald atop his head with a long silver braid that met his ankles and an equally long beard. He wore deep aubergine robes and although he was blind, he was exceptionally perceptive. Arya knew all too well how the senses were heightened at the loss of sight. Each time she saw the man, he made her shudder inside. She knew she could trust him; his admiration for Gendry was paralleled only by her, but seeing him with his ailment reminded her of a time she would much rather forget.

Then there was the Master of Coins Lord Pius Skel'rah. Arya held a distaste for this man. He may have been a friend of Stannis Baratheon but he was no friend of Gendry's nor hers for that matter. His green eyes had an ugly glint to them that was accompanied by a snake-like smile. He had short neatly trimmed blonde hair and a sleek medium length beard held in place with a golden band.

He reminded her very much of Littlefinger with his sly cunning and fickle personality, because of this she had vowed not to trust him and would sooner thrust her sword through his heart than she would grace him with a smile.

Her brother-in-law Lord Broderick Thoren of Dragonstone was the Master of Ships. He married Sansa a few years ago after Stannis had released her from her forced marriage to Tyrion Lannister, before he banished the imp from King's Landing. Until Gendry took the throne, Broderick had merely been a Ser, of noble blood yes, but far from a lord.

Broderick was somewhat short, only a few inches taller than Arya herself, but he was well-built and could hold his own in battle. He had mousey brown hair that reached his shoulders and stubble coating his jaw. He was a humble man, a good man who respected and loved her sister even though she did not return that love. Sansa and Broderick had made a small family in Dragonstone and kept mostly to themselves. They had a boy, Eddard, aged only two and a second child on the way. Arya smiled at the thought of her young auburn-haired nephew.

Lord Nyros Kvothe, the Pentos philosopher, was the Master of Whisperers. He was dark-skinned with short curly black hair and there was scarce a part of his muscular body that wasn't covered in foreign tattoos. He was as a walking painting with a mind just a peculiar. Even after a year in council with him, she still was not certain that he had a sound mind at all. In fact, she often thought him mad. He was an enigma if nothing else.

With Robb dead, Bran had immediately become King of the North –a title Gendry allowed him to have. The king had also made her younger brother Master of Laws. He was now of an age of six and ten, old enough deal with matters of execution and punishment. Gendry tried to keep him out of battle for her sake. Having already lost Robb and with Jon presumed dead at the Wall, he feared she would begin to lose her mind was she forced to face another of her brothers' deaths.

However, Bran could not disagree more. He longed to prove himself in battle and blamed Arya for his not becoming Master of Ships instead.

"And what of Winterfell, dear sister?" the unspoken rage dripped into Bran's voice.

She eyed him, trying to convey a silent dare for him to challenge her.

"I will send eight hundred men and no more. That combined with your forces should be enough to hold the city. With any luck, the Targaryen won't make it that far."

"Surely, Lady Stark, eight hundred is too many. Winterfell is miles from King's Landing. It would take the Kahleesi days to reach it." Lord Kvothe spoke up.

"Too many?" Bran scoffed, "The Targaryen has dragons at her side, whilst I have less than two thousand soldiers! Need I remind you, Kvothe, that I cannot walk and that I have to protect my brother who is only two and ten?"

Rickon would soon be on way to becoming a man but that didn't mean that he had recovered from their parents' deaths. His mind was underdeveloped and fragile. Emotionally he was as volatile as a wounded direwolf that had been backed into a corner. He was in no such state to face any more horrors than he had to. Arya understood Bran's concern.

"Unfortunately, Lord Stark, we cannot put your family's needs above that of the King's." Voleur rasped, "We must protect him first and foremost."

Bran slammed his fist down on the table, knocking over the little metal markers in the process. One side of the map curled up onto itself with no regard for the other markers or their strategy.

"King Gendry is only one man!" he half bellowed.

Arya allowed herself to openly glare at her brother. She was already stretching their men to limit, sending more to Winterfell would help her brothers yet leave King's Landing weaker. It would leave Gendry weaker, but then he had her by his side and unlike her brother he was not crippled…

"He's still your king." Arya said lowly, "You will have nine hundred men and I'll send for Jaqen H'ghar. He'll be your right hand. If King's Landing is breached, he will ensure you and Rickon get to safety."

Lord Skel'rah turned his head, a triumphant, malicious smirk playing on his lips,

"A strategy that would weaken the king, but strengthen your stronghold? My dear Lady Stark, anyone would think you were planning to overthrow the king…"

Her fists clenched at her sides, her blood boiling at what he was suggesting. She restrained herself from withdrawing her sword –it had become a habit of hers over the past few years to unsheathe it whenever she felt threatened. Now was no different.

"I do not care to sit on the throne, my lord. My interest lies only in slaying those that threaten my king and my house."

With a twitch of his lips, he gave a small bow and left the room. The thick, wooden door shutting behind him quietly. Arya stared at the door for a moment too long, wondering what Skel'rah's plans were.

"I feel we are pressed for time, Lady Stark." Voleur said, his words slicing through the sudden silence of the room, "King Gendry's nameday feast is soon to begin and I hear Septa Hatur is eager to see you."

Arya rolled her head and groaned in exasperation, she rubbed her forehead, as if by so doing she could simply rid herself of her growing headache,

"Seven Hells...soon she will be lining up suitors for me."

She found herself feeling ill at the mere thought. Bran's laughter caught her off guard,

"Surely, that would be a good thing, sister?" He said, his anger slipping away, "You shouldn't want to be an old maid. At seven and ten Sansa was married with Little Ned in her belly."

Broderick smiled at the nickname his son had been given. Bran was a truly wonderful uncle who doted on Little Ned.

"I don't want to be married!" Arya snapped, "Least of all to someone of Septa's choosing."

Bran cocked an eyebrow as Broderick lifted him up,

"What of her choosing?" Bran asked, wrapping his arms around their brother-in-law's neck.

Arya crossed her arms defiantly,

"She could have me married to another Joffrey for one. Or worse he could be a arrogant fool who feels a woman's place is in the kitchen and not in the war-room."

"But a woman's tender heart should not have to face the brutality of the battlefield." Kvothe said smoothly.

"I don't have a tender heart!"

Despite her protest, Bran chuckled loudly whilst Kvothe and Voleur failed to hide their smiles. This only served to aggravate Arya so much so that she soon stood and stormed out of the room. She pulled the latch on the door hard enough to create a heavy thud as the door slammed shut.

Arya stalked through the halls of the castle towards her chambers in the Red Keep. It was not far and her anger carried her there faster than she would have liked.

The gown that Septa Hatur had laid out for her was vile. She would have taken to battling a dragon with only a wooden stick over that monstrosity any day. The garment was too long for one, reaching the floor. She had not worn a gown such as this in years! What if she tripped and broke her neck? Surely Gendry would preferred a unceremoniously dressed Arya to a dead one? It was of a nice colour she supposed, a deep dark green that would suit her well, but even then it had the design of the lily flower embroiled into the material in blue and gold silk.

Arya's face contorted in abhorrence for the garment. How was she ever supposed to move in such a thing? Wearing garments such as this required too many layers for if they were attacked the thing would render her useless! She sank onto her bed, her shoulders slumped.

She missed Braavos. There all the women wore trousers -if they ever did wear gowns then they were short enough to enable movement. There no-one had told her what to wear or how to behave. It was a place where women were able to choose their path and if they chose to be soldiers then they were treated as such. There she was equal to any man.

The door to her chambers opened slowly. Septa Hatur smiled gently at her as she entered the room.

"Ah, there you are, milady. I was looking for you." Septa held up the gown in front of her, "Beautiful." She said more to herself than to Arya, "Made of fine silk from Essos and shipped all the way here just for you."

Arya's face remained impassive. She made no attempt to get ready. She would not have minded the feast if it did not carry so many unjust expectations of her. She was even less a lady now than she was as a child, war had taken any chance of such a thing away from her, her hands were stained with blood and held the callouses of most men.

"His Grace thought you would like it."

Her brows knit tightly as her head snapped around,

"Gendry thought that?"

"_His Grace _did indeed, yes. Well, he thought you'd prefer it to the others at least."

Arya supressed a growl of frustration and stood to get undressed,

"I suppose he thinks it's funny." She ground out as Septa slipped the first garment layer over her head, "It's not." Arya lifted the skirt of the first layer, "It's so heavy, I might as well be wearing amour. At least I'd be able to fight in that."

"Oh, hush, milady. It's a feast not a battle. You will be a golden flower, an image of beauty."

Another layer was slipped over her head, this one just as heavy as the first and made entirely of a thick gold fabric.

Arya scoffed,

"I don't care about being beautiful."

Septa helped her into the dress, the long sleeves of which confused her. It was lighter than the first two layers, though not by much. Arya could feel her ribs protesting as Septa laced the back of the gown. Septa laced it so tightly that when she looked down she realised that she truly was a woman now. She felt exposed, naked and vulnerable.

She had learnt yore that very few men treated women with respect, most only thought them there to pleasure them and nothing else.

Joffrey's men had thought nothing of raping any women they stumbled across, some too young to even be called women! The sounds of their screams echoed in her mind, but it was not the only reason why she felt the urge to cover herself with her bed linen and not leave the room until she had changed. There had been a man once who had made her realise that sometimes strength could fail the strongest person, cunning could fail the sharpest mind and courage could leave a person faster than the light left their eyes when death finally took them.

Nothing was certain.

The mere thought of any man leering at her tonight, giving her that look, made her stomach churn. Her fear ignited anger that grew and burned inside of her.

"Why does it have to be so tight?" she asked, using her sleeve to try and cover the mounds of flesh peeking through her bodice.

Septa sighed as she began to un-plait Arya's hair,

"To show off your womanly form, milady."

Arya rolled her eyes at that. It was an answer she was expecting but far from what she wanted to hear. Arya decided not to speak again as Septa Hatur plaited a section of her hair and wrapped it up into an ostentatious bun, she left two sections to drape over her shoulders. It took over an hour for Septa to finish her hair and when Arya looked in the small handheld mirror she was overcome with dismay at how very much like Sansa she was in that moment.

Yes, Sansa was beautiful but Arya didn't want to be beautiful! Whether she liked it or not she was a woman, and beauty brought nothing but danger to a woman.


	3. To Conquer

_**A/N:** __Wow, this chapter was hard to write! I started it last week and only just finished it so I wouldn't be surprised if it seemed out-of-character. Daenerys is such a complex character. Anyway, I hope you like it and please review -feedback is dead helpful :) _

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_**Chapter Two:**_

**To Conquer **

Daenerys Targaryen stood at the steps of the large castle in Myr, her small hands holding the chains to restrain her dragons which were now the size of large strong steeds. Ser Jorah and what was left of her khalasar stood silently at her back.

Her lips her were as dry and broken as the Red Waste, her hands calloused and bleeding. She wore her bloodied, bruised and soiled body with pride. They had struggled to come this far, they had lost many to either the Gods of Death or to madness. Few had made it out alive. If it weren't for her dragons and her people, Khaleesi was sure she too would be dead.

She did this for them, for Drogo, for Ser Jorah. She would not fall, not now that she was so close to taking back the Iron Throne.

After they left Qarth, the used the stolen gold to buy a ship, vast and strong, it should have been enough to take her from the Summer Sea to the edge of Slaver's Bay, where she took Astapor and later Meereen. She struggled to rule over the city for two years with many people in desire of her severed head. She dealt her enemies the card of death before deciding she had learned enough of ruling a kingdom to take the Iron Throne.

Daenerys and her khalasar conquered Volantis and Volon Therys during their year long journey to the Disputed Lands. They were not halfway through the Disputed Lands when they joined the war that was raging between Myr, Tyrosh and Lys.

She lost nine of her khalasar during that war and one of her dragons was wounded, but she took the trio of cites for her own. Her eyes set only on the Iron Throne.

Ser Jorah had warned her not to do battle when her dragons had not yet fully developed into adults. She now wished she had listened to him but her need to reclaim what was rightfully hers was too strong.

"My dear people," she said, with a small smile on her lips as she gazed down at the dark-skinned Myrmen, who stared at her in fear and awe, "I am Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of Aerys Targaryen the second and the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms!" she began to pace up and down the podium of the castle, "I will not allow our cities to be ruled by a bastard who does not belong on the Iron Throne."

The people of Myr cheered in agreement, their fists punching the air before slamming into their chests. Daenerys smiled, she had the Dorathki, her dragons and now the Myr...perhaps she truly could take the throne. Perhaps she could win this war with as little bloodshed as possible.

Ser Jorah stepped forward, his eyes earnest as he addressed the people,

"This Gendry has no true claim to the throne. He is not a king, but a boy. He will not know how to rebuild your ruined cities nor will he be able to protect you from the terror that plagues our world. He will not want to."

Daenerys watched the Myrmen's faces grow deeply concerned with each and every word Ser Jorah spoke.

"He will not want to because he does not care for his people, he cares only for power just as the king before him. Do not be fooled by his claims to be a peaceful ruler; in the end he and Joffrey are no different."

Ser Jorah stepped back, allowing Kahleesi to speak,

"Join me, fight with me, and I promise I will do everything in my power to give you all that you desire. I will shower you with gold, I will feed your children and deliver them from pain, I will slaughter your enemies!"

The people roared.

"I am the true Queen!" Daenerys bellowed, throwing her fist into the air to show the people she was one of them.

She stared after them for a moment, watching their determined and hopeful faces, the music of their triumphant screams fell on her ears, it was beautiful. Heavenly. Ser Jorah took her hand and pressed it to his dry, swollen lips,

"Khaleesi." He said softly.

Daenerys cupped his face, bringing his lips down to her own. Ser Jorah wrapped a hand around her waist and knotted in her long white-blonde hair. She leaned into him as if she could somehow inhale him, he had been there for her since Verys had sold her to Drogo, he had been there for her when she lost not only her beloved husband but also her son and he had been there for her throughout the war when the people of her conquered cities had defied her.

It was when he risked his life to slay the men who had wounded her dragon that she realised she loved him. Her dragons were her children and anyone willing to die for them was sure to have her heart. She had been blessed by the God to have found her second moon-and-stars. To have loved again.

She would treasure every moment with Ser Jorah, for Drogo's death had shown her how quickly it could all be snatched away.

Daenerys ordered her fittest men to aid the Myrmen's wounded, sent her strongest women to bring them food and water. She left the rest of the Myrmen to give their dead a dignified burial, and swore to pray for their journey through the maze of the afterlife to be a safe one.

She chained her two unharmed dragons outside the castle walls. Ser Jorah helped her lead the injured third dragon inside; she stroked his scaled neck, trying desperately to sooth its screech of a whimper. Khaleesi hushed her dragon, the blood from the deep gash ran through her fingers. Her eyes flew wide as she looked at Ser Jorah, whose face was also a mask of horror.

"I must cauterise the wound. You will have to restrain him." Ser Jorah spoke slowly, Daenerys nodded, his expression went from one of small relief to one of a new dread, "Khaleesi...you will have to do whatever it takes to restrain your dragon, do you understand? This will sting, if he becomes violent-"

"I am his mother! He will not harm me!" she snapped, anger coursing through her veins at even the suggestion.

Though she had come to love her advisor deeply, he could be too cold sometimes, too cautious.

Ser Jorah sighed,

"Not you, no, but the people of Myr, _your_ people...? They are in no position to fend off an angry dragon."

With one look at her lethargic, screeching dragon she knew he was right. Daenerys collected the heavy chains and secured each to a pillar supporting the castle and prayed it would hold. Ser Jorah managed to start a small fire with some help from the dragon. He held his blade over the flames until it glowed a bright warm gold. One moment she was admiring the glow of the fiery blade, the next she was struggling to calm her dragon as Ser Jorah pressed the flat of the blade down onto the vile wound.

The dragon shrieked and attempted to wrestle away, Khaleesi hummed a song gently and rubbed her hands down the large beast's shoulder, but it seemed to do nothing. The dragon continued to thrash about violently, fire escaping its throat with a loud, unforgiving roar. The metal of one of the many chains began to melt from the flames that licked at its bonds, hard steel turning into a silvery-black liquid that dripped onto the floor of the castle.

She tried frantically to calm her erratic dragon and found herself recoiling in fear more often than she cared to admit. Ser Jorah dropped his sword and stood to help her, realising that, although she was the Mother of Dragons, she could not do this alone.

As Ser Jorah reached up to grasp the melted and weakened chain that held the dragon in place, it reared its head and opened its mouth wide, bringing its teeth down in a blur of motion. Ser Jorah pulled his hand back just in time to avoid having his arm bitten off but the dragon did not stop there. It continued to lash out so much so that as it flailed its vast body in anger, its tail knocked Ser Jorah across the other side of the room before the great beast of a dragon collapsed to the ground. The dragon soon fell into a lethargic state, its scaly eyes closing slowly.

Daenerys made her way over to Ser Jorah who lay on the floor, his weak hands -with blisters from clutching his sword so tightly in battle- struggling to push him up. She was less than five feet away from him when he held out one of those hands,

"No." he choked, the breath having been taken from him, "If you do not wrap the wound up soon your dragon will eventually bleed out."

Khaleesi stopped in her tracks, torn between which to cater to first, her love or the closest thing to a child she may ever have? She found herself turning on her heel and ripping the large silk tapestry from the wall. Daenerys struggled to wrap the silk around the dragon's shoulder and though it took her quite a time to bandage the dragon she battled with herself that tending to Ser Jorah later was just.

By the time she was done, Ser Jorah had pulled himself to his feet using the wall and staggered over to her,

"You must forgive me," she said, "I did not expect him to react as he did." She reached out to him as she spoke, trying to tend to his injuries, but he gently pushed her hands away.

"He winded me, that's all, Khaleesi." He said in a breath, "I'm lucky that he was not at full health." He joked as she pressed her hands to his chest, moving her tender fingers over his ribs and abdomen to make certain nothing was broken and that he truly was well.

Daenerys allowed herself a small smile of relief when she found nothing was broken or swollen, she wrapped her arms around his waist and saw him try to hide a winch –bruises were already be forming on his arm and back. She stroked his cheek, though stubble grazing the palm of her hand it was not the reason for the tingling, burning sensation. He smiled at her touch, turning his face to kiss her palm.

"What do you think of the king?" she asked, he opened his mouth to say something but she cut him off, "Truly..."

He looked down, then up at her with those beautiful eyes of his,

"He seems admiral, though I don't doubt that's a ploy...but ploys or no, he's not fit to be king." Ser Jorah held her hand to his face with one of his, whilst the other held a single white-blonde lock of hair, "He is weak, Khaleesi. His only consolation is in those that follow him for _they_ are strong and even then it is only in force. Their minds are fickle; the people of Westeros are changeable creatures."

Khaleesi pulled away from him, her hands reluctant to leave the warmth and comfort of his body. She walked away from him, leaving quite a distance between them.

"And what of our chances, Ser Jorah?" she asked, somewhat hesitantly for someone who was now so out-spoken, "Do you truly think that once this battle is done with, the throne will be ours?"

She played with the string of metal beads that were fastened around her waist as an ornament of her dress.

Ser Jorah cleared his throat, nonetheless his voice was gruff when he finally answered her question,

"I do not believe it will be an easy battle, Khaleesi. There are many men whom believe in their king and who will die in honour of his name, and of course there is his Hand, the Princess of the North who knows more of war than most men and will be leading the battle."

Daenerys heard his take a deep breath behind her; she closed her eyes, trying to calm the thoughts. She had lost enough people in the battle last, her dragons were young and not ready for another fight, and prophecies in Volantis had said there would be a war to end all wars...she was certain this was it, but she was afraid it would be her end and not the bastard's.

"We have the Dorathki, Volantenes, Lyseni, Tyroshi, Myrmen and your dragons at our disposal...we can win this. It will take time but it will be done and the people of Westeros will bow to you, Khaleesi, of this I'm certain."

She smiled. Finally she would have what was hers, what she had longed for all her life. Daenerys Targaryen would finally have a home and she would do what the bastard could not...

She would give them a leader worthy of the Iron Throne.


	4. A Crime and A Price

_**Chapter Three**_

**A Crime and a Price **

He pushed open the doors to the throne room and walked inside, his head held high in spite of his banishment. He had left Tommen in the care of Bronn when he decided to come to King's Landing to wish the king a pleasant nameday...no, in truth he had come for _her_ –the woman who had bewitched him.

Tyrion Lannister had loved only twice before. First there was Tysha whom he'd discovered was no whore but genuinely in love with him and had it not been for Jamie telling him such a lie upon his father's request he may still be with her. After his father passed her around his guards like the whore they'd claimed her to be, she had taken her life by jumping into the Narrow Sea. Even now, after all these years, his heart was still heavy with that loss.

Then there Shae whom had stolen his heart when he thought it was too badly damaged for anyone to want it. She had stood by him despite his being an imp with an awful scar running across his face. He had loved her truly and when someone –a whore or a lady- would offer themselves to him for his pleasure, he would kindly refuse. He wanted nothing more than to be hers, faithfully and completely, and her to be his in much the same way.

Shae apparently had other ideas.

When he found her in his father's bed, his fury consumed and he, in his fiery wrath, had strangled her. He had fought with his father afterwards and while he loathed that they had ever been together in life, he felt it only just they should be together in death also.

She was different. So completely different to the two before her. Tysha was too fragile, too easily broken and Shae...? Shae was a manipulative wench. Oh, but not she.

His new love had all the beauty and charm of his two old loves, yet she was strong and pure. Her determination to survive without being corrupted by power -as everyone around her had been- met no bounds. He knew of no-one like her. Maybe it her house that had made her so, maybe it was in her blood or perhaps she had simply learnt that strength and the intelligence to use that strength wisely could conquer worlds without ships or weapons.

He had to admit when he had first met her he had seen only a young girl full of naivety, but now as he watched her full grown and with her small, blossoming family –not a bruise or a scratch to remind her of her past- he could truly say he felt inspired by her. She had such courage.

He shan't think of it. She had another man in her life, a strong man, a good one and for Tyrion that was enough. Or at least he told himself it was as he made his way towards the throne.

Robert's bastard had been kind to him since he'd learnt of his help with the war effort and despite his family's banishment, Tyrion was allowed to return to King's Landing on occasion. Of course those occasions usually meant when the King or his Hand had requested him to be there, but he thought that the gift he was about to bear would make up for it.

"Your Grace." The imp bowed and greeted the young king.

Gendry gave a kind smile, nodding his head.

"Lord Tyrion…" he said, "I was not expecting you."

"He wasn't invited, Gendry." Lady Arya rolled her eyes at the king's ignorance, "He's not supposed to be here."

Tyrion watched as the dark haired lad turned his blue eyes to the young woman's grey ones, his brows slightly raised –indicating that he knew the Lord had not been invited, but was trying to be polite nonetheless. Lady Arya just glared at him.

"I hear I am to call you Princess now." Tyrion said in that smooth tone of his. Only just remembering that her brother Robb Stark had claimed himself King of the North and upon his death Bran had taken his place.

Lady –no, Princess- Arya simply shrugged. The movement so typical of her character yet it seemed so odd to see a lady shrug whilst wearing a grand gold and blue gown.

It would appear one could put the now second eldest Stark in a gown, but one could not take the warrior's edge from her movement or the fiery glint from her eyes. No, the war had shaped her so that she would never truly be fit for the court life other ladies were forced into. She was a fighter now. She always had been. However now the innocence had been bled from her and it was all thanks to his sister allowing her monstrous child to run amuck.

His heart tightened. Oh, how his nephew had destroyed the people of Kings Landing. No more were they carefree and jolly, but cynical and pessimistic. Perhaps the new king could change that.

'"_Lady_' is fine. Though I'd rather just be Arya."

Tyrion looked at her with uncertainty,

"Which should it be?" he said, "I would not wish to offend you."

Now both Kind Gendry and Lord Tyrion were watching her. Both knowing she had an unstable relationship with the imp, not trusting him but forced to respect for the debt she owed him in taking care of her elder sister during the war.

She sighed, "Just Arya."

He smiled that dashing smile of his, turning his head back to the king, his hands folded behind his back as he climbed the steps,

"And you, Your Grace…you have no objections to this? Seven Heaven's forbid you to feel I am disrespecting your Hand."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Princess Arya tapping her foot. She knew he was playing with them. Being overly formal simply because he knew it grated on her nerves. King Gendry, however, was less observant of this.

The young king laughed, his blue eyes sparkling as he looked at his Hand,

"I'm afraid that _milady_ has more say in what goes on than I do. If she says you are to call her Arya, call her Arya you must."

The imp was about to bow to them both and bestow the knowledge he had come with of Daenerys Targaryen's injured dragon and how it would be wise to rally the men together and strike soon, when Princess Arya discreetly kicked her king in the shin and marched off in the direction of the Red Keep. King Gendry half winched, half laughed before calling out her name. Tyrion watched as the young princess stormed out of the room.

The king rose from his throne,

"Forgive me, Lord Tyrion, I better go see if she is alright. But please enjoy the feat and help yourself to whatever you like."

And with that the young King Gendry vanished in the direction Princess Arya had fled, leaving Tyrion alone with his message still to be conveyed. The little lord stood there for a moment, undecided as to what to do. He found himself wandering through the hordes of people, pretty maidens with long flowing hair and smug looking lords with their tailored dress tunics and skirts. He kept his eyes on her as he passed through the crowds whilst sipping his wine and nibbling on a leg of wild Peafowl. However, he refused to make his way over to her and instead entertained himself with the company of Lady Lwiryn Mausdra, whom his love's brother was courting.

He gave the lady a little bow whilst she curtsied rather awkwardly in return. It seemed Princess Arya was not the only lady of court unsure how to take him since he helped bring about his family's downfall.

"Lady Mausdra, how are you?"

She was a soft spoken woman of five and ten with long blond curls and an angelic face; pale skin, thick curved brows, wide eyes and full lips with a scattering of freckles across her nose. She was very beautiful and –from what he'd heard- well educated. It was little a wonder why King Bran had taken such a liking to her.

"Very well, my lord. You?" her tone held a slight edge as if it were loathsome to simply talk to him.

"I've been educating my nephew Tommen with manners, morals and other such things my sister failed to teach him." He could see Lady Mausdra felt quite taken aback by this taboo topic, "See, Cersei was an intelligent woman, yet as I'm sure you know she put little thought to the behaviour of her children. I'm attempting to remedy that."

"Sounds as though you have much to do, my lord." She replied, her snide remark clearly evident.

Tyrion did not feel wounded by such talk, they were his sister's children and his sister had made the grave mistake of giving them all that they wished for. Tommen's new understanding that riches and gold were a privilege meant a chance for at least some redemption of the Lannister name.

"It's been tiresome." He nodded, "But Tommen's got a good heart…" Tyrion was no fool and could see she was biting her tongue so as not to insult him again. The imp took a sip of his wine, "I'm beginning to fear he was not even Cersei's." He laughed and had the pleasure of seeing Lady Mausdra attempt to hide the fact that she had very nearly choked on her wine "Though it would bid the question as to where he came from." By now Lady Mausdra's eyes were bulging, "Perhaps she stole him."

It was then that King Bran appeared by her side, his grey eyes possessive and weary as he watched his lady and the imp.

"To what pleasure do we owe your company, Lord Tyrion?" he said, with a tight smile.

King Bran had never had much problem with Tyrion, nor did that change after his nephew had Lord Eddard Stark's head severed from his body severed from his head and skewered on a pike outside the castle walls. One would rather think that would change his view of the little lord, but apparently it had not. Unlike Princess Arya and Prince Rickon, King Bran did not blame Tyrion for his sister's crimes.

The cause for his forced smile was merely that he knew the lord to be a womaniser and had little interest in losing his lady to the imp's charms. King Bran had no to worry there as not only was Lady Mausdra too pretentious for Tyrion's taste, but he was also not the kind of man the lady liked either; they merely tolerated one another and made conversation, nothing more.

Tyrion gave his third bow of the night,

"King Bran." He greeted him, "I fear I'm here on business and not pleasure. I was to bestow King Gendry with word about the Mother of Dragons, but he seemed to have a disagreement with your sister."

The King of the North rolled his eyes, a true smile breaking out onto his face upon the knowledge that he was making idle chit-chat and not attempting to woo his lady.

"Arya has quite the temper. It's a wonder he allows her to treat him so."

"Have you not considered he may feel something of love for your sister?" the ever perceptive Lady Mausdra asked.

It was the King of the North's turn to choke on his wine. He swallowed and let out a loud laugh,

"_Arya?"_ he said it as if the lady had just suggested King Gendry had feelings for a goat, "Whatever could the king see in Arya?"

"She is very beautiful, my king." Tyrion spoke up in defence of the girl he had always admired and respected, "And highly intelligent with a mind as sharp as the swords she slays her enemies with."

King Bran looked at him incredulously, disbelieving his sister to be any of these things.

"He also spent a few years with her during the war. Troubled times can bring even the most opposing minds close." Tyrion explained, his eyes on the woman he loved as she danced with her young son.

The imp turned his head away from the sight when his heart sunk to the depths of his stomach and King Bran's eyes narrowed in bewilderment. The King of the North sipped his wine and shook his head.

"No. I cannot believe King Gendry could feel anything for Arya. Or how any man could for that matter…she would not let them."

"Perhaps not. Princess Arya can be rather terrifying."

Tyrion's remark caused the king and his lady to erupt in laughter –albeit Lady Mausdra was quite reluctant to laugh at Princess Arya's expense, she soon found herself giggling as what the imp lord had said was very true and King Bran's elder sister could invoke fear into the hearts of the bravest men on a bad day. Tyrion merely smiled as the two young lovers laughed. Pleased he had eased the tension yet feeling slightly guilty at his jibe. He bid King Bran and Lady Mausdra goodnight before turning on his heel to leave.

It was then that he saw her staring at him. Her bright blue eyes alight with shock and something else –something wonderful- when he saw him. Her hair was braided to the side and left to drape over her left shoulder, she wore the typical ladies attire in a gown the same colour as her eyes. For a moment she did nothing, made no attempt to move nor look away from him and even from this distance she could see was trembling slightly. He couldn't fathom why though. In all his time all he had ever done was try to protect her.

He gave her a small smile to show her he meant her no harm and was graced with an equally small one in return and a nod off her head before she turned back to her children.

Tyrion sucked in a breath and drained the metal cup of its contents. He remembered the day he had fallen for her and all those times leading up to it. He had seen her in the streets before, ever guarded by her father or with her brothers. Her elegance and beauty truly one of a kind. He respected her as he had respected her House since he'd known them, yet it was not until he saw he glance up at him that day, when her eyes met his for the first time that he began to feel something tug him towards her. It was the day Joffrey had heard of Robb's victories in the north and had decided to punish her for it. Luckily Tyrion had arrived moments before she was to be raped by one of Joffrey's henchmen before court, he had helped her to her feet and in that moment something passed between them. Something beautiful and whether he was to acknowledge the feeling or not it was there.

Lord Tyrion of the barbaric Lannister House had fallen for Lady Sansa Thoren, formally of House Stark. It if weren't a doomed romance, the little lord did not what was.


	5. Sword in Flames

_****_**A/N:** _I'm a little afraid this chapter may make Arya sound horrible. She's not and it does tie in with the Arya/Gendry plot later. So please don't think she's awful because of me. _

* * *

_**Chapter Four **_

**Sword in Flames **

"Arya!" Gendry called as he followed her down the halls to her quarters.

It didn't stop him when she slammed the door to her bed chamber in his face. He merely pushed it open with enough force to slam the great wooden door back into the stone wall attached to it.

He was furious with her, however he was uncertain whether or not he had any right to be. Ever since he had summoned her to King's Landing a year ago, ever since she had returned from Braavos, she had been ever in a rage. He didn't know if it was the death of her mother and brother that had made her so angry, or his time with the Brotherhood or even if it was merely that she loathed court life yet for some reason unbeknownst to him, she was angry. Always, always angry.

Even now as he watched her storm around her chamber, collecting her usual gear -which consisted of a man's tunic, trousers and riding boots- he could see every movement was executed with a certain amount of rage. Her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles had turned the white of the snow in the north. It was as if it was taking all her strength not to start throwing her possessions at him.

"What's wrong?" he demanded to know, his tone rid of the formality that court required.

"Get out!" she snapped, "Can't see I plan to change?"

He rolled his eyes at her and scoffed, exasperated.

"Arya, I've seen you naked loads of times."

It was true, he had. During their travels to the Wall there had been many a time when she would bathe of an evening whilst he was forced to stay awake to guard at their camp, occasionally catching glimpse at her. It was wrong, he knew, but he found himself unable to pull his eyes away. She was a woman at the time after all, having celebrated her three and tenth nameday in the woods with him and Hot Pie after their escape from Harrenhall.

Albeit, somehow this fact only served to make her more angry.

"That doesn't mean you're allowed to look! Turn around!"

That he did without complaint. He knew she would check to make certain he had his back to her anyway. Gendry stared at the wooden door that had long swung shut. He counted the chips in the ebony wood to take his mind off the fact that not ten feet away from him was a beautiful young woman standing naked.

He knew he was more like his father than many of his subjects thought. Physically they saw a striking resemblance that Gendry did not and mentally a strange opposition that Gendry did not. From what he knew of the late King Robert –it seemed strange to think '_father'_ for he had never had such a thing- the two were very alike; both possessive and stubborn, both with a weakness for beautiful women. He had had quite a few flings both before and after he met Arya, but unlike his father he knew those flings would end should he settle down.

It had only been a few moments since they last spoke, but it felt like an entire winter. Their arguments were usually over in a few minutes. Never had Arya stayed angry at him for so long and it worried him.

"What's wrong, Arry?" he breathed in a sigh, using the nickname she actually preferred to the one that infuriated her.

He heard her let out a growl of frustration, mumbling something about the _'stupid layers'_. He turned to find her in the under layer of the gown, her small hands struggling to undo the ties of the corset at her back. Without a word he walked over to help her and much to his surprise she didn't attempt to shove him away, but rather accepted that she could not do it herself.

"I don't want to be a lady." She said as his hands worked on the ties.

He inhaled her scent. A musky, bloody smell that was completely Arya and told him what he already knew; that she had been out hunting early this morning.

"And what do you want me to do about that?" he asked, somewhat amused.

"Well for one you could stop picking out gowns for me!"

He rose his brows at that. It was news to him that he had any say in her attire. In fact it was quite the opposite, he'd rather his Arya than the lady the court tried to shape her into.

"I didn't pick this for you." He said calmly, knowing there was more to her mood than just the gowns Septa had chosen for her, "Or any of the others for that matter."

He finished undoing the final tie and took a step back, his eyes rolling over her slender back without his realising it. He turned away while he still had the resolve to do so, but it did not stop his mind from wondering. _Seven Hells, stop it! Stop it! She's your friend! She's still a child compared to you! _He scolded himself yet the thoughts still came.

"Then Septa lied to me?" she said.

He could hear she was gritting her teeth. Gendry couldn't help himself and allowed a small chuckle to escape him.

"So you wore it because you thought I wanted you to wear it?"

No answer but another growl from her confirmed his suspicions and caused further laughter from the young king as he listened to her stomp around her chamber, reminding him of when she was but a child and he'd made her angry with a joke or a jibe or whatnot. They had scarcely changed in the past five years. If anything they were much the same two troublesome children they were back then.

Aside from their slightly older appearances, the only difference was that Arya's growing temper meant they argued more than usual.

"It's not just the gowns though, is it?"

Silence.

"You can turn around now." Was all she said when she did speak.

He turned to find her dressed in her usual attire and fastening up the brown leather waistcoat. It was less flattering to her figure but so much more suited to her, which he preferred. Gendry nodded towards her new choice of dress and gave a small approving smile, to which she replied by sucking in a breath and swallowing hard, her lips turned down at the corners.

"You should return to the feast." She said matter-of-factly when he did not move.

He watched as she busied herself folding her gown and setting it into the large trunk at the base of her bed. She then proceeded to slip on her riding boots, she perched herself on the trunk and lace them. Arya was completely ignoring him, or trying to at least. Gendry knew she was failing when her eyes began to take note of everything in the room, shifting constantly as if everything else held some interest for her but him.

When she finally did look up, Gendry briefly turned towards the ebony door, his hands making gesturing for her to join him.

"You coming then?"

For a moment she said nothing. Gendry frowned. The thought of returning to the feast without her seemed wrong. She was his friend, his Arya, she should be there at his nameday feast, _her_ before anyone else.

Arya's eyes fell to the stone floor, her lids covering her steel grey orbs. Her eyes moved slightly beneath those lids lined with long, dark lashes. Her brow furrowed just as much as his and it was clear she was thinking,

"Only if you swear not to call me _'milady'_." She said as she unknotted her hair from the extravagant bun and re-braided it to the side as how she would usually wear it.

He nodded once, "Alright."

She gave him a warning look,

"No treating me like a lady either."

"Fine." He replied, his frown deepening, confusion evident on his face.

Gendry opened the door and held it in place waiting for her to exit through it, it was only when she didn't move that he realised his mistake and so he stepped out into the corridor first, holding the door opened from there. Arya seemed to decide this would do and eventually followed him out.

He could not quite understand why she so desperately wanted to be a man.

When they were younger it was clear that should she be found out to be a girl she would surely be raped or taken back to the Lannister's as the missing Stark that she was, but now there was no fear of either of those things. No reason why she should need to hide who she was. Gendry had done everything he could to ensure life at court was easier for her; he had made her Hand, allowed her to make all final decisions when it came to the war and had tried many a time to explain to her Septa that should she wish to dress in her hunting gear it was perfectly acceptable. So why in Seven Hells did she still want to be a man? Gendry couldn't conjure even a single cause.

"Are you ever going to tell me?" he asked, breaking the silence that filled the empty corridor.

She shook her head, "No."

"Why not?"

"Because it wouldn't change anything."

He thought about that, wondering what she meant by it. She had been acting out of sorts ever since she returned, there was certainly something wrong, he just did not know what. What made matters worse was she wouldn't tell him. Indeed everytime he would ask her what caused her sudden outburst she would snap at him, sometimes she wept, but more often than no she grew angry and avoided him until she had calmed down.

Many a men would put this to a woman receiving her Red Flower once a month. It was more than that however, because she was like this every day. Occasionally, Arya would make it through an entire day without weeping nor becoming irate, but come the morrow she was off again.

And by the Old Gods and the New it was driving him mad.

He stopped and reached out to grab her arm, painfully aware that for a second she was about to recoil, then, as if remembering it was him, she relaxed.

"Arya…" he started, the strange look she gave him causing him to falter a bit, "If you're angry at me just say so." He said in a hurry as he often did when he was concerned.

She looked up at him, her face set in her signature scowl before she smoothed it out and forced a weak smile.

"I'm not angry at you."

He was half-disappointed by this, having thought that should she be angry at him he would do everything he could to make amends. The fact that it was not his fault only served to tell him that the problem lay elsewhere and she would not be the one to tell him what that problem was.

"Then what?" he studied her face, "How am I supposed to help if I don't know what's wrong?" he said, trying to coax her to tell him.

She was not having any of it. Staring up at him with her brow tightly knit, her eyes filled with something he did not recognise yet it was something that made his chest ache nonetheless.

"You can't help me."

With that Arya walked off, he heard her footsteps as she half ran down the winding staircase that led to the throne room. His heart sank at the thought that his Arya was slipping away from him, that something –be it the war or the many years they'd been apart- had forced her to distance herself from him. Now that they were safe to spend every waking hour together without fear, she had decided she could not trust him with her secrets. It should have angered him.

Instead it left him feeling hollow, like a piece of him had been snatched away long ago yet he had only just realised it.

He shook his head before dragging himself lazily in the direction of which she'd vanished. His head hung low, mouth pressed in a tight line of thought and feet shuffling against the hard stone floor.

For the rest of the night he watched her closely, saw how she interacted with no-one but those she knew –himself, Sansa, Bran, Rickon, Broderick, Little Ned, Lwiryn, and occasionally Tyrion Lannister. How even when she did speak she spoke with an edge of anger and something else he couldn't place, something that hurt him to hear from her lips. He was worried war and death and blood had finally cut through her, destroyed her in a way no man nor God could mend. Gendry had to try though and so without thought to how it would look he decided to devote the evening to her, to not rest until he had made her smile. Truly smile.

They danced, joked, drank wine, danced some more and, when all but her House had bid them goodnight, he lifted what was left of the banquet and threw it at her. It wasn't until he poured the bowl of beef stew over her and Rickon that she finally burst into fits of laughter.

Gendry was stunned into silence for a second when he heard the sound he had so missed escape her. He could not remember the last time she had laughed as such but he swore to make a habit of hearing it.


	6. Little Bird Song

_**Chapter Five **_

**Little Bird Song **

She smiled down at her son as she tucked him into bed, setting sheet upon sheet over his tiny frame to keep him warm.

Her heart clenched; he was so like Robb. With dark curly hair and such a serious look on his face. She smiled at the memory of her beloved brother, even as a child he was sullenly protective, always cautious of others.

Of course Little Ned was less so, but somehow his face made him look it. He had the kind gleam in his eye of his father and the turned down mouth of his uncle. Not a single ounce of her in sight. No strand of red Tully hair nor fleck of bright blue in his eyes. No. He was Stark and Thoren through and through. She loved him all the same. Would have given her life in a heartbeat to keep him from any harm. He was her child. Her beautiful, beautiful child and only when she felt that first kick did she come to understand why her parents had been so protective. There was simply nothing that could compare to the love she felt in her heart for her son.

Well, nothing _except_ the joy she felt at giving him a brother or sister.

"Mother?" he said sleepily with a yawn, "Sing me a song."

Sansa suppressed a small laugh at her son's lisp as she picked the fennel from his hair. Oh, but she would have to bath him on the morrow whether he liked it or not.

"Let's see…how about the Little Bird song?"

Little Ned nodded silently and Sansa began to hum the slow and somewhat haunting melody.

_L__ittle bird, little bird_

_Where could you be?_

_I hear nothing but the wind and the rustle of the trees._

_While the war wages on_

_And winter comes to be_

_Little bird, little bird will you ever sing your song for me?_

She sang it quietly, her gentle voice lulling the little boy into sleep. His eyes closing over despite his efforts to stay awake to hear the rest of the old song he found so enchanting.

Sansa caressed his arm, her thumb brushing against the bits of stew that had been splashed all over him when the king had decided to have a food fight to celebrate his one and twentieth nameday. She should have been furious; Little Ned was dressed in his best silk tunic and now it was a grubby mess! But it was the glorious giggle that King Gendry had managed to pull from her child that made it all worthwhile.

How his little pudgy face lit up the moment that blueberry pie was thrown at Bran –hitting his cheek and coating his face in the purplish substance.

_Little bird, little bird_

_Summer's sound I long to hear_

_Sing away the frost, hum away my fears_

_While the snow falls_

_And the flowers wither here _

_Little bird, little bird sing the song that I hold most dear._

Despite his upbringing and his childish, uncouth ways –which made him and Arya one of the same at times- Gendry was lovable to say the least. He had a way with children Sansa had seen in no other man. Not even Broderick.

She waited until she was certain Little Ned had fallen asleep before she stood and reluctantly parted from him with a gentle kiss on the head.

Sansa rubbed her growing belly as she made her way into the living quarters of the grand house she shared with her husband. It was no castle, but she did not want a castle, just as she had not wanted the title of princess and had not wanted to marry a lord. It was only Gendry's kindness that had given them such a good life, had he not improved Broderick's status they would be living in a rundown shack on a farm, but as it were the king simply refused to allow them to live in such poverty.

Joffrey had destroyed her value of wealth and status, for after her traumatising marriage to him she had found herself wanting a humble life of isolation. Sansa had found it hard to accept the advances of any man after Joffrey's treatment of her, afraid that once again she would fall into the embrace of a monster.

Instead she found herself admiring the kind, widowed farmer from Dragonstone. She decided it was easier to be with someone whom she felt little for but whom treated her justly. She would fall in love with him as the years went by, as her mother did with her father.

"All tucked up tight, is he?" Broderick said, as he leant over the chair she was seated on to place a kiss on her cheek, his hands rubbing her back.

"And sleeping soundly." She smiled.

"How is she?" he nodded towards the swollen bump.

Sansa followed his gaze and stared down at her stomach, rubbing it some more. She closed her eyes and breathed a content sigh when she felt the baby kick inside of her.

"Ferocious as a direwolf." She laughed, looking up into his muddy brown eyes wishing they were of green and black, "You do not know it's a girl."

Broderick chuckled, "_She _is a girl. With fiery red hair and cool blue eyes just like her mother."

He planted a second kiss on her lips, brushing her hair from her face. She had to force herself not to think of another man doing the very same, of his coarse hands and ever broken expression. Sansa reached up to touch her husband's face, tracing her fingers over the entire left side but even after three years it felt wrong. She should not be looking up but down, her eyes should have met those strange ones as they had that day in the castle, her fingertips should have felt the raised, ragged flesh of a battle scar.

No, by comparison Broderick was perfect and a part of her loathed it just as much as she loathed herself for feeling so.

"Are you coming to bed, my love?"

"In a moment." She replied, "I am not tired yet and I must finish Little Ned's sheet. It won't take long."

With a nod and a squeeze of her shoulder, Broderick was gone, disappearing into the dark of their bed chamber.

Sansa had little to do but sleep and the Gods knew she needed it. Her limbs felt heavy and sluggish as she began to sew bed linen for Little Ned, embroiled with his initials and the House crests of Stark and Thoren. Her hands weaved the silk through the thick cotton as her mind wandered to the man whom she had been married to for a short period of times.

She had been angry when Tywin Lannister had her married off to his youngest in a bid to keep her hostage. Yes, she had been grateful to Tyrion from the moment he set foot through the doors and the throne room and put Joffrey in his place, reminding that the acts of the Man King got him killed in the end. But gratitude and a debt owed by now means meant she trusted him, if anything she was cautiously waiting for him to ask some torrid of her, to beat her or betray her in a way only a Lannister could.

However nothing of the sort happened. He did not ask her to consummate the marriage nor did he make any threats to her or her family. He treated her kindly, spoke softly to her and openly commended her for her courage for staying with Joffrey and not attempting to flee for the sake of her family. And when her mother and brother were killed by the Freys, he sat with her while she sobbed, he did not speak but merely shared her grief.

It had taken some time for her to begin to trust him. There were many nights where nothing was said between them as neither one seemed able to find what to say. It seemed as though it brought him no joy to be with her and she was long uncertain about her feelings for the imp, either way the redness around her eyes slowly began to vanish, her tears gone with it. Even now she did not know whether she loved him –_truly_ loved him. She found comfort in him, in his knowing gaze and his rough hands, but was that the same as love? Did love even exist? Lady Sansa Thoren did not believe so anymore, not unless it was the love she felt for her children. That was real.

She remembered the day she had begun to believe that perhaps he had a good heart after all, that perhaps he was not like the rest of his family. It was long after their marriage had been annulled, long after Tyrion had fled to the Narrow Sea and she had accepted the advances of the then Ser Broderick.

Tyrion had returned from his travels and given her his best wishes, it was a fleeting moment that lasted no more than a few seconds but she felt something…something she could not explain. It was as if the Gods of time were resting, the great clock stopped and all she saw was him. In that moment she saw the sincerity etched unto his face, he was genuinely happy that she had found someone who was just and treated her so. She was rendered speechless, unable to form a coherent thought, her mind a rush of many questions but none she nor anyone could bear answers to.

Having seen him at the feast tonight…it stirred something within her. Conjured up memories and curious feelings she did not quite understand. She had met his eyes and the depth of emotion there –even from across the room she felt as though she were peering into the crevices of his soul.

There was blood there, sin. But something purer, something which no other Lannister possessed. A conscience, morals.

Sansa decided not to dwell on it. For dwelling on things was no good to anyone. She would never understand her relationship with the imp; they had been all from strangers to enemies, allies, man and wife, to nothing at all to this…whatever they were, she respected him, admired him and prayed for him. He was as strange to her as the thought of winter, for she was a summer child and did not grasp the essence of it.

She set the sheet down, her fingers tired from the repetitive movement of sewing and her eyes squinting in the candlelight. She lifted her gown in one hand, the candle in the other and made her way to her bed chamber.

Broderick's peaceful breathing was a clear indication that sleep had long taken him. Sansa stripped down to her undergarments and slipped into bed beside him, her skin warming from the heat that his body threw out. Sansa pulled the many sheets up over her shoulders and lay on her back looking up at the green canopy that over the frame of the four-post bed. Her eyelid began to feel heavy and so, despite her ever constant mind, she rolled to her side, wrapped her arms around Broderick and allowed herself to sleep where dreams swirled in her head.

Suddenly she was standing of the edge of a great cliff, a greater woodland behind her, trees covered in snow yet the warm sun caressed her skin. _Summer and winter_, she thought. Her hair blew out behind her, the breeze causing her dress to billow out. Below, at the base of the cliff, there was a river full of the dead she had once known. Some whom she'd loved, others she held only hatred for; her mother and father, her brother, Joffrey, Cersei, her first unborn child, Sandor, her old Septa, the three men who had attempted to take her that day. They were all there, their glazed eyes staring up at her.

The sound of a singing bird caught her attention, she turned, wanting to know in which tree it sat. But as she spun around the sound died and before her the trees melted away, the cliff began to shake, a large rode the middle of it. A fire broke out before her and behind her the sound of a blizzard whipped at her ears, the cold icy air causing her to freeze under her thin gown.

_Tell me the truth_, the voice whispered. She gasped, not knowing which death to take as she deemed them both equally painful. _Tell me the truth_. It echoed. _Do you want an end to this engagement? _

Upon recognising the words, Sansa closed her eyes and stepped back, granting permission for the snow storm to engulf her and carry her down into the depths of winter. One final sentence was uttered by the voice she knew well before she froze to death.

_Lady Stark…you may survive us yet. _

It was then she awoke to be greeted by the sight of dawn, the feel of an empty bed and the sound of Little Ned's cries bellowing through the house. A feeling in her stomach that had knout to do with the child she was bearing. Sweat slick on her forehead and hands trembling as the horrifying thoughts haunted her. What was wrong with her son? Had the Mother of Dragons come with her soldiers? Were they to take him away from her?

The thoughts near rendered her useless, making her limbs too weak to carry her. It was only the thought that something awful may happen if she did not reach him soon that enabled her to run, and run she did.

As fast as she was able.

Praying nothing had harmed Little Ned and vowing to kill whatever was out there if it had.


End file.
